Poems for February

All Poems Written by Me

Orange Street Penthouse

I sometimes think of the kid

in the Orange Street penthouse.

Who was he?

Who did he think he was?

I hope he thought he was someone important

The world can be a cruel place.

And he would wonder


and the meaning of it all


he was important to me.

A vision of what was

and what was to be.

He lies in the garden

sparrows chirping

the brilliance of humanity gleaming

and he is reminded

that all is one

in the Whole.

Iowa Jack

Iowa Jack. Small town hero.

Broad shoulders, big heart.

His parents watch from their one story

a static tv,

televising the simulation

Fighting a perfect society

for an imperfect one.

a place where the good doesn’t always win

but never gives up.

Iowa Jack. Small town hero.

The game is over.

Each payed our price

His brother makes a call

at three am

Hundreds of miles away,

I answer

the phone clatters to the floor.

And another part of my world

comes crashing down.


This story begins with a birth. A very good place to start a story. Yesu cries out into the world, so ordained by the universe that time seems to stop, or maybe begins. One with nature, and nature one with him. The trees sing his name, and he sings back theirs. Many a secret is exchanged this way. Of life, of death. Somewhere in the middle. But where there is light, there is darkness. Two sides of the same coin. The grim reaper has arrived, finally the witching hour. Yesu grabs a book and whispers three words before drawing an x over his heart. Death is knocking. Coming for him. The words pour out of the book onto his skin. Slither down and burn themselves into his classmates. Trading his life for theirs. One final smile is shared among friends. The book falls. Pages are blank. A radio buzzes in the distance unbothered: They put the chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry. 


How melancholy

is the song of the caged


Longing to be set free.

To experience

Rain pattering on the asphalt,

The sun shining across Colorado farms

Beckoning a new day.

Her cage is sad.

Her cage is happy.

They are everything that make us,


Maybe the key

to escaping our cages

is to live in them.

Defined by our boundaries

Because only then

can we find happiness.

But I know

this is not true.

I cling to it.

So, tell me then

how do you think

we escape our cages.

In The White Room

Running, running, running

out of breath


Ready to lay down my weapons

and surrender whatever I have left

and see my friends.

I fling open the doors

and run down the aisle

of the white room.

Smoke drifts through the doors

lying close to the ground.

The enemy enters

of many changing faces

and conflicting agendas.

I turn

the divine of humanity

at my back

and face down

my final challenge.

It’s over

and red mixes with white,

all the while

the irony is not lost on me.


we all have our limitations. 

our boundaries. our confines.

the crucibles that keep us human

cross this minefield

ever so carefully, one foot in front of the other

you see in the periphery of your vision 

the citadel of your liberation

but just as you are a few steps away

the closest you have ever been

one goes off

and you survive of course,

every time

with your only consequence of death

being that you return the other side

to fight that good fight one more day

but the pain is still real.

the fear still real

and the worst part of all

is that deep down you know

there is no end to this game

But please

don’t lose faith

because just when you are at your darkest hour

the lowest of your lows

you reach that golden beach

and you make the impossible a reality

diving headfirst in that good blue ocean

and swimming as deep as you can go

and you keep swimming

and pulling at that water

you don’t stop. 

not for air. not for life

and you suffocate. you explode. from the ocean.

from a mine

but this death is different


but be thankful

because the minefield has taught you something


and it’s this

a life without mines

is no life at all

their lessons stay with us. not soon forgotten.  

and the scars they give us define our struggles

and the mines slowly become more ourselves than we are

for the songs that radiate from our hearts

reflect this triumph of the human condition.

so sit with me on the minefield. just for a minute

so we can watch the red sun rise over our false paradise 

and make peace with our demons

so that one day we may be harmonious custodians

of this beautiful world


and it is a very beautiful sunrise indeed.